


A Comprehensive Approach to Time Travel

by papersurrous



Series: Cliché Tropes and Prompts [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, 50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts, Angst, Childhood Friends, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Violence, it's weird organization but i want to keep the prompt lists separate so :(, some are placed in the same universes used in the one with the time traveler, tua s2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersurrous/pseuds/papersurrous
Summary: Or rather, one particular time traveler, and a grumpy one at that.—(Five/Reader one shots, some related, some not. All based on the 50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts prompt list by @bucky-plums-barnes on Tumblr.)
Relationships: Five/Reader, Klaus Hargreeves & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Reader
Series: Cliché Tropes and Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2049309
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	1. neodymium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 49\. You caught me doing something dangerous and flipped out + 50. I’m scared but won’t admit it so you take my hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

It’s starting to snow.

You keep your hand on the cold, metal cross bar, pressing down but unwilling to open the door. The thin, plastic bag in your other hand rustles as you twist it up in your fingers, pills rattling around in their bottles as you swing it back and forth. A frown tugs at the corners of your mouth.

Winter is here, and you don’t like it. You used to. But that was back then, when you were allowed to wear winter jackets and gloves and scarves and thick, fluffy hats to protect your ears from the biting cold. The snowflakes were a lot prettier when you didn’t have to feel them melt through your hoodie, cold and wet, every time you had to go outside.

Now you have to toughen up because heroes deal with the cold.

“Warm thoughts,” you mumble to yourself, gritting your teeth and pushing the door open. The bell jingles as a freezing slap of air greets your face. “Warm thoughts.”

You step out of the drugstore and into the night, pulling your hood on and tugging the drawstrings taut. The streetlamps light a path across the road and down the sidewalk towards home. At least it’s just a fifteen-minute walk.

For the past few years, on account of you attending the Umbrella Academy, you’ve never felt unsafe walking through the City alone. One of the pros of being trained as a hero, though you’re not quite sure if it outweighs the cons of Mom selling your warmest clothes and the grueling, rigid routine of training and missions during the week. The crime rate in this part of the city isn’t that high, anyway, on account of it being one of the nicer, richer areas. Mom had been delighted when the two of you moved here to be closer to the Hargreeves mansion. (The fact that your stipend’s now enough to fully cover it this year is even better.)

Arms crossed tightly over your chest, you press the crosswalk button with your elbow. Cars screech to a stop and honk at you to hurry up as the traffic lights turn red. You scurry across, legs stiff.

(Halfway there.)

But just because you feel safe walking alone doesn’t mean you like it. Being alone means that you have to deal with your thoughts without being able to share them, and it stinks. You prefer the nights when you sneak out with Klaus, buying a tub of ice cream from the drugstore and eating it outside the 24-hour café nearby until the owners shoo you away, or going to the movie theater with everyone when Sir Hargreeves is gone on a trip. You like walking home with Five or Klaus after your Mom started getting too tired to pick you up for the weekends.

Somberly, you step out into the street towards your apartment complex.

You like being part of the Umbrella Academy when you don’t have to think about being a hero …

**_BEEEEEEEEEEEP_ **

As if in a dream, you turn your head toward the sound. Your bag falls gently to the ground.

It’s a car horn. Loud, deafening. Distorting, blurring. A _car_.

It’s not slowing down.

You should move.

You raise your hands instead.

The force hits you like a giant fist. Your blood burns hot as you push, and _push_ , and _push_ , jaw clenched so tight you think your teeth might shatter. The air is getting squeezed out of your lungs. The tires screech. The horn screams. They’re all you can hear.

_Push! PUSH!_

The pressure rises and rises –

And then it’s too much.

The fist shoves you back. Your back hits the ground.

You don’t even have time for last thoughts. But before you can catch one last glimpse of the tires that would dash your brains across the road, something grabs you, and the next thing you know, you’re somewhere else.

The engine roars, and the car speeds away. What’s left of your lunch promptly ends up on the ground next to you, and that’s when you start crying, nauseous and cold.

“Am I dead,” you choke out, eyes screwed shut. Whatever had grabbed you is still there; you can feel their weight on your shoulders. Your mouth tastes awful and sour and bloody. “Am I …”

“You’re not dead.” A breathless voice pierces through the fog in your head. It’s familiar, and close, and you pry your eyelids open to see –

You see Five.

His face is stiff and pale, his voice even, but as you blink away your tears, you see unbridled panic just beneath the surface.

“Shit. _Shit_ ,” he hisses as you close your eyes again, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Why is Five here? How did he – “[Y/n], don’t close your – don’t go to sleep, for fuck’s sake …”

You do your best to listen as he shakes you a bit. Don’t cry. You’re okay, you’re _fine_ … your … “My pills,” you slur out, hand feeling around for his arm so you can sit up. Looking at the road, you see the limp plastic bag, ghostly white against the dark asphalt. Your stomach roils again. “Ugh, I feel so _sick_ …”

“I wonder why.” Five looks at you, mouth pressed into a thin, grave line, before blinking to the middle of the road to grab your things. He blinks back immediately. “Can you stand?” he asks tightly.

You swallow, wincing, and nod gingerly. You’re fine. “Yeah.”

The snow is falling harder now. Five helps you stand, and after a few minutes of regaining your bearings, the two of you slowly make your way up to your apartment. When you fumble with your key, Five takes it and unlocks the door himself.

“Couch or bed.”

“Bed,” you mumble as you scrape off your shoes. Thankfully, Mom isn’t home. You’d hate to have to explain all of this – she’s been so stressed lately …

The nausea is pretty much gone now, but the prickling fuzziness in your every limb remains. A little steadier on your feet, all you have to do is hold onto Five’s arm as you shuffle towards your bedroom.

“Get changed and wait here.” He fixes you with a steely gaze before disappearing. A few moments later, you hear the sink run, followed by the sound of the microwave opening and closing.

Is he mad at you? Biting the inside of your cheek, you take off your wet hoodie, putting it in your laundry hamper. Then you peel off your socks, and after closing the door, everything else that the snow had soaked through.

A few minutes after you change into your pajamas and settle onto your bed, Five knocks on the door, and you tell him to come in.

He hands you one of two mugs, this one filled with water. You take it. The other, filled with hot chocolate, is set on your nightstand.

“Are you mad?” Your voice is small.

Scoffing, Five glances away from you, a bitter smile on his lips. “I’m wondering what the _fuck_ you were thinking,” he mutters.

“I almost did it,” you say. “That was the most I’ve ever done.”

“And you almost _died_.”

You look down into your mug. “It’s not that much different from a mission.”

“Actually, it is,” Five replies, his smile spreading – it doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s beyond ticked off – “because there are _people_ looking after you during a mission. Who would’ve saved your ass if I hadn’t happened to be there? _Nobody_.”

“Maybe that’s what I needed,” you mumble, taking a sip of water.

Five narrows his eyes at you.

“What?”

You speak louder, a little indignant. “Maybe I needed to know that nobody could bail me out so I’d actually _try_.”

“You’re always trying!” he snaps. “Wanting to improve your ability doesn’t warrant a goddamn near-death experience, because as I’ve said before, you almost died!”

His chest is heaving when he finishes, and as you gape at him, startled by his loss of composure, you _realize_.

“I scared you,” you say, voice soft and wondering. “Didn’t I?”

Five just stares back at you. That is answer enough, but you set your water down anyway, stand up, and take his hand.

“Five?”

“I almost didn’t make it.” All the anger from before trickles out of his tone, and all that’s left is something quiet and uncharacteristically desperate. He clutches your hand until it’s almost painful. “That split second before I blinked, I thought …”

You step closer. “I’m okay now.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“Okay.”

“Please,” he says.

“Okay,” you murmur, a lump in your throat. “I won’t.”

Five looks at you, searching. Then he closes his eyes and sighs a very old-sounding sigh, and as he does so, you lift your free hand to brush his cheek.

“Sorry,” he eventually murmurs, and you can tell, by the way he looks down and says it quietly, that he’s not quite used to using the word, “for shouting.”

You smile. “I forgive you. Sorry for scaring you.”

“You should be.”

“Aw. Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Five.” Feeling very warm, you take his other hand, chuckling at the awkward look on his face. (Honestly, the two of you are a mess, aren’t you?) “I love you a lot. You know that, right?”

At your words, his eyes soften. You wonder if he knows.

“I know.”

“Okay. Good.”


	2. the first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. “Good morning, beautiful/handsome”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

He feels strange when he wakes up.

Five opens his eyes just a crack, then squeezes them shut immediately after, breathing in as he buries his face halfway into his pillow. God. He feels _really_ strange.

The blankets are heavy and warm over his body. An ache – a half-pleasant ache, the kind that brings relief through every muscle once you stretch – lays gently along his shoulders as he rolls onto his back, reaching up to rub his eyes. Then he opens them again, more fully this time.

The curtains are drawn, and the sun paws at them with soft fingers. A gentle, yellow glow from the gap in between them falls across his eyes, and as he blinks, adjusting to the light, Five feels you shift next to him.

He looks over at you. You gaze back at him through sleepy, half-open eyes, and even though the bottom half of your face is obscured by the blankets, he knows that you’re smiling.

 **“Good morning, handsome.”** Your voice is raspy and muffled. “Why’re you up so early?”

Five hooks his fingers over the top of the comforter, pulling it down so he can see the rest of your face. Your nose wrinkles at the cool air, and the ghost of a smile flits across his lips. “You realize that the sun’s up, right?” he murmurs.

You shift again to lay on your stomach, hugging your pillow. “That doesn’t mean anything to me anymore,” you say.

He raises his eyebrows as you yawn. “And why’s that?”

“Because the world isn’t ending,” you drawl, stretching out a hand underneath the covers to find his, “and we have curtains.”

Your tone is matter of fact. Five lets out an amused huff as you close your eyes, absently stroking the back of his hand with your thumb. Every once in a while since April 1st, you remind him that the apocalypse is no longer coming, sometimes in passing like this, other times more directly. And although he has never admitted it to you, he’s been needing those reminders – stopping the apocalypse had been his priority for decades, and now that it’s finally _gone_ , he has to force himself to think about a future that lasts more than ten days.

A future that, thankfully, includes you.

“Did you sleep well?”

He hums, gazing at your peaceful expression. “Yeah,” he replies, and he’s being honest.

“Seems like you did.” You let go of his hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. A small grin graces your face. “You’re usually grouching around the room before your coffee.”

“Believe me, I’ll need it eventually.”

“You’ve been drinking less of it, though. That’s good.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll fully kick it,” Five mutters. He reaches for your hand again, not completely unaware of his action. “It was one of the only things keeping me sane during the whole saving-the-world shitshow.”

Your grin grows slightly cheeky. “Oh?” you muse. “And what were the other things?”

“I can see your head swelling already.”

“Indulge me.”

He gives you a flat look, then rolls his eyes, letting you kiss his knuckles. “Fine,” Five concedes, his voice softer. “You also kept me sane, some of the time.”

“Aw, _Five_ , I’m touched.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You press your lips to his hand again, and Five instinctively pushes down the strange, pleasant feeling that it sends through his chest. But then you hold them there, and you just _look_ at him, and he swallows down the thought that he should pull away because he doesn’t _want_ to. Because it feels nice. Maybe he should start getting used to having nice things, like Klaus and Allison had said.

… Jesus, he’s taking his siblings’ advice now. Something’s wrong with him.

When you withdraw, the distant ringing of a bell filters through the door. Five frowns.

You sit up reluctantly as he turns away from you to check the alarm clock. **_9:34_**. Huh. Everyone must have slept in. It’s understandable; the previous night _had_ been quite eventful, after all, with Claire’s birthday party at the mansion.

“I guess we didn’t sleep through breakfast,” you remark, stretching as he pushes the blankets off the two of you. “I wonder what Grace whipped up.”

Five swings his legs across and over the side of the bed. “Well, it’s Saturday, so she probably made pancakes.”

“Really? I was thinking waffles.”

The ringing gets louder. _Klaus is heading up the stairs_ , Five thinks while the two of you pull the covers over the pillows. About thirty seconds from now he will open the door, swinging the bell around and telling Five and you to wake up. As per usual. Five finds himself looking forward to it, in the exasperated, fond kind of way reserved for his brother. It’s like old times.

(Better, actually.)

“Five? [Y/n]!” Klaus’s singsong voice cuts through the sound of the bell. The door creaks open and he pops his head in, pausing his clanging around for just a moment. “Wakey, wakey, lovebir – oh, you beat me to it. Less work for me.”

“We’ll be down soon,” you tell Klaus, smoothing out the comforter on your side.

“Oh, excellent. We greatly look forward to your presence at the table.” The man provides a sagely nod, then points the bell at Five. “You, not so much.”

Five sends a sharp, narrow smile his way. Klaus merely returns it with a mock grimace, unruffled, then resumes his ringing as he disappears from the doorway.

As his brother makes his way back down the hall, Five turns back around to meet your eyes; eventually, you break out into a chuckle as he deadpans. You move towards the curtains nearest to you and pull them open, letting the light in before joining him.

“Well,” you say, “we can’t leave them waiting, can we?”

“They’re used to it,” he responds.

Unhurried, Five walks with you over to the door, ushering you through before leaving the room himself. He leaves the door open.

Morning has broken, and his siblings and niece are downstairs. You are right beside him, alive and well, no longer touched by the ashes of the apocalypse.

Everything is just as it should be.


	3. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8\. Hands brushing unexpectedly + 13. Both going to grab the same thing and touching hands, then making eye contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: swearing, mention of underage drinking

**I.**

The first time Five thinks about holding your hand, he immediately realizes how stupid it sounds.

Your fingers brush when he hands you a granola bar. That’s it. (And it’s a shitty granola bar, too.) The contact is brief and insignificant – not the first time you’ve accidentally touched, and certainly not the last – but the idea flits across the back of his mind all the same, quiet yet sudden, and Five lets go quickly before it can take root.

“Thanks,” you say.

Of course, you are completely unaware of what just transpired. And that’s how it should be. Five blinks and nods shortly, catching a glimpse of your solemn smile before turning away to focus on his own meal. The sound of crinkling plastic fills his ears as you open your package beside him.

(People don’t just hold hands for no reason. Shut up.)

Five breaks off a chunk of granola with his teeth, chews, and swallows. The hard, dry pieces of granola scratch his throat on the way down. He eats about three-fourths of it and gives the rest to you.

—

**II.**

The second time Five thinks about holding your hand, it’s purely for safety reasons.

“You better not fall and crack your head,” Five warns, begrudgingly ready to blink at a moment’s notice as you throw your arms out to balance yourself. A rare, delighted giggle escapes your lips.

“I won’t,” you reply as you slide towards him again. “I’ve done this a million times.”

“Did you now.”

Humming in affirmation, you come to a stop in front of the boy. He keeps himself securely in place atop the ice as you do so. “Yeah, every winter. With my”—your soft grin suddenly fades a bit—“with my family.”

Five isn’t quite sure how to respond at first. He looks at your longing expression for a few moments, brow furrowed; eventually, however, he comes up with a sympathetic, “Must have been fun.”

His words are sincere. When a slight smile returns to your face, he’s secretly relieved.

“It was,” you say. “It still is.”

Your words sit gently in the winter air between the two of you, and then you turn and tear your gaze away from his, boots scraping across the frozen pond with an odd kind of grace. Five very nearly catches your hand as you leave his side, and he tells himself that it’s only because he doesn’t want you to fall.

—

**III.**

The third time Five thinks about holding your hand, he concludes that you wouldn’t want him to.

It’s dark. Rain pours from the sky, a warm, steady rain that drums against the tarp hung carefully over the two of you, and within the space you’ve carved out for yourselves, everything is dry and safe for the night.

“Did you ever read your comic books?” You’re lying on your stomach, head cradled in your hands as you peer over at him curiously.

Five shrugs. “Only the first one,” he murmurs, eyes tracing over the bolded print and faded colors splashed onto the page. The enthusiastic faces of his cartoon siblings look up at him underneath the lantern light. “It wasn’t terribly accurate.”

“Oh.”

The rain falls. You chew the inside of your cheek, pensive. He waits.

“Did you like it?” you finally ask. “Being a hero?”

Did he like it? The question actually makes him pause for a split second before he gives his answer. “It was alright. I was good at it.”

“But you wouldn’t be one if you didn’t have to.”

“Probably not,” he says.

You nod slowly. Both of you fall silent once more, idly reading through the rest of the panels as **_THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY_** finally uncovers the mastermind behind the entire villainous operation. (He supposes that bank robberies and museum heists would get repetitive after a while.)

He moves to turn the page the same time you do.

Five meets your eyes when your hand covers his, and immediately that goddamn _thought_ , louder and more urgent this time, crawls into his head again. _It would be simple_ , it whispers, _to not move away_. So damn simple.

But you tense, expression blank, and he doesn’t hesitate before slipping his hand out from under yours. The fact that you relax not long after he does so does not escape him.

He needs to get his fucking shit together.

—

**IV.**

The fourth time Five thinks about holding your hand, it’s because he’s tired.

You’ve gotten sick with something, and he blames himself because he was the one who found the damn food. His own fever and stomach pain only lasted a few hours, but because your physiology is (normal) different from his, you’ve been bedridden for the greater part of the day.

“Shit.”

Five kneels down, holding a cup of water to your lips. You take it gingerly, force down a few sips, and then curl up, forehead slick with sweat.

You’ll be fine. You have to be.

“’m sorry,” you croak.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, a little more sharply than he intended. He tries to soften his voice. “Just get better.”

You’re bordering on delirium. Setting the cup down behind him, Five settles down at your side and crosses his arms, grim and exhausted. He closes his eyes. This was bound to happen sooner or later, he knows that, but it’s a shit deal all the same. He’ll have to be even more cautious from now on.

Something grazes his knee after a while. Eyelids heavy, Five forces his eyes to open a crack; looking down, he sees that you’ve shifted in your sleep. Your hand is outstretched. Almost reaching.

He wants to hold it. He’s so damn tired. Maybe it would feel nice.

Instead, Five carefully takes your wrist and moves your arm back over, closer to you. He wipes the sweat from your forehead and then withdraws.

(Unbeknownst to him, you’re still awake.)

—

**V.**

The fifth time Five thinks about holding your hand, he’s drunk.

The bottle of vodka is empty, and you’re both drunk and talking about family, or the past, or something else that he wants to talk about but also forget at the same time. It gets a little blurry after that – your face and the fire, the fire and your face, and then your hand and his family and –

You’re the one that takes his hand instead, actually. Possibly. He can’t quite remember if you did or not, since his hand is empty when he wakes up, feeling like shit and covered in a blanket, and he’s not particularly inclined to ask.

—

**+I.**

The sixth time Five thinks about holding your hand, you say something about it.

Winter is coming, and everything is becoming grey again. The days are getting shorter and colder. Five walks silently beside you, his breath a pale mist in the dull autumn air, as he wonders how he and you are going to stretch your food supply during the inevitable shortage.

There is an overturned car in the middle of the road. The two of you move in tandem to avoid it, and as it happens, you come a little closer and your arm touches his. Five feels you stiffen as the backs of his fingers brush the back of your hand; against his instincts, he pulls away and stuffs his hand into the pocket of his oversized coat.

“… Five?”

You say his name timidly. Frowning a bit, Five looks at you out of the corner of his eye, and notes with confusion that you seem bothered.

“Yeah?” he answers.

Your voice gets even quieter. “You don’t like holding hands, do you?”

Five’s frown deepens, but he shrugs noncommittally, avoiding your eyes. How did you come to _that_ conclusion? “You don’t seem that fond of it.”

“I … really?” Slowing down, you sound genuinely perplexed. “That’s … that’s not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I …”

You clear your throat, and the rest of your reply is mumbled. Five squints.

“What?”

“I like it,” you squeak. “Holding hands.” You bury your face behind your scarf immediately after.

“Oh,” Five says.

So it was a misunderstanding. Not that it really changes anything. Neither of you add on to the excruciatingly awkward conversation, as there is no need to do so, and Five pointedly looks to his right as the pair of you drag your wagons along the ruined asphalt. No, he thinks, this doesn’t change anything at all.

He pulls his hand out from his pocket and walks a little closer. And as the wind blows and the sky gets greyer, Five takes your hand, and you curl your fingers around his, and that is all.


	4. significance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26\. Cuddling in comfortable silence before murmuring “I love you” + 47. “I’ve been in love with you for years”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: swearing, violence
> 
> a/n: fem!reader

His head feels like it’s been split open, the rest of his body feels like one giant bruise and the Handler’s _daughter_ has her fancy leather boot on his fucking throat.

Five couldn’t be less surprised by his luck.

“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

He forces in just enough breath to answer her. “Eat shit and die …!”

The reaction is worth it. Lila lets out a furious cry, gritting her teeth and bringing her foot down even harder – and in doing so, changes her center of gravity. _Opportunity_. Five digs his nails into that damned shoe and pushes upwards. The sudden force sends her flying, and he can breathe again.

Fighting the ache in his bones, Five stumbles to his feet as she does the same. “Come on,” he pants, readying his stance as the woman turns to face him again. “What are you waiting for? Let’s finish this thing.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, sniffling. “This isn’t gonna be quick. You are going to _suffer_ for what you did.”

Suffer? For Christ’s sake – Five scoffs and drops his hands. “Lady, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Ronnie and Anita Gill.”

“Mean nothing to me.”

“1993, East London.” Lila continues to stare at him like he knows what the hell she’s talking about. “You hog-tied them and you shot them in the head.”

Five narrows his eyes; it’s very possible that she’s just bullshitting him. But despite the rationality of just ignoring her and going for the kill, he searches his memories anyway. 1993, East London. Hog-tied. Tables overturned, the pleas of a couple inside a tiny flat in the middle of the night. Yes, wait – he does remember. 1993, toys strewn everywhere – he told you to close your eyes but you didn’t – East London, two quick shots –

_“We had no choice.”_

_“I know. But …”_

“The flower merchants,” he murmurs. Five looks at her with wide eyes. “They were your parents …!”

“And they never did anything to anyone. They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

The Handler ordered him to kill Lila’s parents. Lila, who has powers like _them_. That couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Absorbing this newfound information, Five attempts to talk the woman down as he fills out the rest of the picture. “You’re right, alright? I killed them. But I killed a lot of people over the years. It was all just a job. Alright? That was never personal.”

At that, Lila laughs. “‘Never personal,’ my ass,” she sneers. “Yeah, I’ve killed – it’s always, _always_ personal.”

“That’s why you’re not cut out to be an assassin.”

She yanks a knife out of her boot as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth. “Bet your life on that?”

Right then, a shadow moves in the doorway to the barn. Five immediately knows who it is, and his heart seizes in his chest.

“Lila!” Your voice is firm and taunting.

Shit. _Shit!_

Without hesitation, Five lunges for the knife, only to find himself grabbing at air as Lila reappears behind you. The blade is pressed against your neck before he can even shout your name.

Five clenches his fists as he meets your eyes. Your expression is stony, hands stiffly grasping at Lila’s arm. Jesus Christ, just a little energy to blink – _nothing_ –!

_Fucking shit!_

“ _Let her go._ ”

—

_The bearded man smiles. “Sorry, no can do.”_

_The alley is frigid and dark, the air damp and rotting. He doesn’t move a muscle. In front of him, you breathe steadily, in and out, not saying a word. The steel barrel pressed flush to your temple mirrors the one against his._

_“Just hand over your valuables and that briefcase, and we can be on our way.”_

_“Sorry,” you say, voice steady and cold. (It makes him proud.) “Everything stays with us.”_

_He looks at you. You blink._

_Within the next half-second, he’s knocked your captor to the ground and the two of you are aiming the guns at their previous owners. They raise their hands almost immediately. Exactly like the exercise from his youth._

_Another half-second, and both of you pull the triggers._

_Five stares down at the corpse now lying on the ground. Then he straightens his tie and turns to you._

_You’re still pointing the gun at the other target. His frown softens._

_“[Y/n].”_

_Putting a hand on your arm, he notes how you stiffen, snapping out of whatever zone you had been in. You meet his eyes and breathe in sharply, then relax._

_“We’re done.” You frame the question as more of a statement as Five takes the former thief’s gun from you._

_“For the night,” he affirms, holding your gaze curiously. “You good?”_

_You wet your lips and tuck your weapon away. “I’m okay,” you eventually reply. He raises an eyebrow; your mouth twitches. “I just – well, you’re taking this whole assassin thing a lot better than I am. Pointing guns and shooting and killing for real, and – and all that pizzazz.”_

_“I_ was _a member of the Umbrella Academy,” Five points out dryly. “Thirteen more years of formal training and being able to spatial jump gives me somewhat of an advantage.”_

_“… That’s true.” Still, you seem unsettled. “Five, you’re okay with this? We’re … killing people.”_

_“No. But we have no other option,” he says. “It’s only until I figure out how to get us back, alright?”_

_You hesitate, then nod. “Alright.”_

_The pair of you leave the alley, leaving the targets there to be found by the police. The fact that they had a gun pointed at your head should make him feel better about it. They were already criminals, too. Self-defense instead of cold-blooded “corrections.”_

_There’s still a bitter taste in his mouth anyway._

_“You hold your own pretty well,” he murmurs after a while, trying to distract himself._

_You grant him a small, knowing smile. “Thanks,” you say, taking his arm as the pair of you walk the rest of the way to the motel. “I had a good teacher while I was stuck in the ruins of the apocalypse.”_

_He hums. “Weren’t you lucky?”_

_Your hand tightens around the sleeve of his tailored suit._

_“The luckiest.”_

—

He’s going to kill her.

Teeth bared, Five starts toward her, only to stop short when Lila presses the blade harder against your throat.

“Not another step, Five,” she warns him, her grip tightening. “Or you’ll both regret it.”

“She’s not responsible for what happened. I was the one who killed them!”

“But she didn’t stop you, did she?”

Five struggles to control his rage. The knife is sharp and black underneath your jaw, ready to draw blood at a moment’s notice.

You inhale shallowly. “Lila,” you rasp.

“Don’t _speak_.”

“Look,” Five forces out as evenly as he can, catching the woman’s attention again. He can’t take his eyes off that goddamn knife. Five can almost feel the edge cutting into his own skin. “You wanna blame someone, blame the Handler, alright? She faked the kill order.”

“Bullshit! I saw the kill order. AJ Carmichael ordered it, and you and [Y/n] carried it out.”

“Lila, listen to what I’m telling you, alright? The Handler gave us the kill order. She came on the job, which she’d never done before.” He unclenches his fists with unwilling, trembling fingers. His mind is reeling. “You’re Commission. You know execs never go on jobs, but that day in London, she was there. Ask yourself why –”

“Stop trying to muddy the waters.”

Five swallows, pulse racing. He rips his eyes away from your neck to gauge Lila’s expression. Doubt is beginning to bleed into it, and he manages to keep his tone level.

Focus on completing the picture. No sudden movements.

“Think about it, Lila. It all makes sense.”

Lila’s grip on the knife relaxes by the smallest amount. She hesitates for a moment before speaking. “What?”

“She never cared about your parents. She was looking for _you_.”

What little is left of her anger melts off Lila’s face. For the first time, the girl looks completely vulnerable. And it’s not a farce.

“Why?” she whispers.

Come on …

“‘Cause you’re one of us.”

Lila whips her head around when Diego cuts through the silence, holding you even more tightly against herself. Five’s gaze snaps back to the knife again and he swears internally.

_Dammit, Diego, you better have a plan!_

“The Handler stole you, Lila. Just like our asshole father took all of us,” his brother explains carefully.

“No. It’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. Because he didn’t have our parents murdered.” Diego approaches her, staying low to the ground, hands outstretched. “Listen to me, Lila. You were born October 1, 1989, the same day as all of us.”

The rest of his siblings close in on Lila, slowly, warily. The movement sends her into a panic, and she cuts a little into your neck. You let out half of a gasp and swallow the rest of it, but it’s enough.

Five sees red.

“Get your fucking hands off her!”

“STAY BACK!”

“Five! Back off!” Diego shouts. Chest heaving and blood roaring in his ears, Five looks at him and then at your sweaty, frozen face – and against every fiber of his being, he listens and backs off, glaring venomously as his brother then turns to Lila again. “Lila? Lila, stop. Let her go.”

She turns her head from side to side, knuckles white as she keeps the knife against your throat. “No,” she chokes. “Diego, you don’t understand. They killed my parents. They took my life away from me.”

Five seethes. “For the last time, it was _nothing_ _personal_ –"

“And it was wrong. I know.” Diego’s eyes flit to Five’s, silently reprimanding. “You want to make them pay for what they did. But killing [Y/n]’s not gonna bring your parents back. You know that.”

“It’s not about bringing them back.”

He nods once, softly. “You’re right. It’s about justice. Honoring their memory.” Diego’s voice is gentle. “Trust me, Lila, I get it. I lost someone to the Commission too. She wasn’t family, but she was my friend, and I cared about her. She wasn’t supposed to die. She didn’t deserve to die. But she did.”

As Diego continues talking, Five keeps his guard up on the other side, watching and waiting for a contraction of a muscle, a single forewarning of violence. If another drop of your blood stains that blade, _shit_ , he’ll kill the woman with his own two hands, Diego’s feelings be damned.

Tightening his jaw, Five shifts on his feet as he looks at you. You stare back with calm eyes – just like that night in the alley, but this time, with no signal for him to make a move.

Goddammit, they should’ve gotten you to safety by now!

“… Just think about whether taking another life would honor their memory. [Y/n] deserves a chance to start over, live a peaceful life with people she cares about. And so do you.”

Lila’s trembling. Yet, she refuses to budge. “If it weren’t for her and Five,” she whispers, “I wouldn’t need that second chance. I would have been all alone if Mum hadn’t found me that night.”

“But there’s a reason she found you. She’s using you, Lila. The Handler.”

“You’re _wrong_. She raised me.” Lila pauses, then asserts, “She loves me.”

“She’s dangerous,” Diego emphasizes. “And you’re scared of what she’ll do with all that new power. That’s why you dragged me to the Commission. Because I know what it’s like to love dangerous people.”

—

 _“Oh, my.” The Handler puts a hand on his shoulder, hovering behind him. “One hundred and forty-three kills on the simulation? That’s a new record. Very,_ very _good, Five.”_

_Five bristles at her closeness, but he doesn’t move away, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of unnerving him. “Thanks,” he says tersely._

_“Tell me, Five. From what I’ve seen during your training, you’d be a lot more efficient in the field if you were a one-man team. Working alone is when you work best.”_

_“I’m partnering up with [Y/n].”_

_“And you’ve filled out the paperwork and everything, I know. I know. But I implore you to think about it logically,” the Handler tells him, leading him down the hallway. “[Y/n] has highly marked assessments, but frankly, they’re nowhere near your level.” She raises her eyebrows at him and blows out a stream of smoke. “Forgive me for assuming, but perhaps this is less about a partnership that would benefit the Commission and more about your personal … relationship.”_

_Five smiles thinly at her. “With all due respect, we’ve worked together for years. Almost forty years, in fact. I can assure you that our partnership will deliver more than satisfactory results.”_

_The woman just hums serenely, eyebrows still raised and cigarette holder between her lips as he faces her. Behind her, he sees you approaching._

_“Excuse me,” he says politely._

_As he sidesteps the Handler to meet you halfway, your shared employer calls out to him, voice ringing through the sparse crowd of Commission drones. “You’re a dangerous man, Five,” she drawls, “and this is a dangerous job. If you want to protect someone, we won’t stop you, but don’t let it endanger this opportunity we’ve so generously provided. To the_ both _of you.”_

_“Duly noted,” Five replies over his shoulder, walking away with you. He can hear the Handler’s heels click against the floor as she goes on her way as well._

_“She’s suspicious about us partnering up, isn’t she?” you ask him lowly._

_He frowns. “I would be too if I were her. But we have to stay together.”_

_“Well.” You reach up to adjust his hat, tilting it slightly. “In any case, I’m pulling my own weight in the field. Just like in the apocalypse. No one-sided protection.”_

_“[Y/n], this is different from the apocalypse. We’re not dealing with food shortages or bad weather – we’re dealing with people.”_

_“All the more reason for you to trust me.” Despite your usual controlled tone and mien, he sees the way that your eyes glint. “I’m kinda dangerous myself, Five. Especially for the people I love, and **I’ve been in love with you for years**.”_

_Five sighs._

_“You’re so sappy, you know that?”_

_(Nevertheless, he finds himself mumbling those four words, just loud enough for only you to hear.)_

—

“Difference is …” Diego glances around at their siblings, then looks down, “they love me back.”

“Shut up.”

“The only thing she loves is power. Now, the minute she can’t use you, she will turn on you, and deep down, I _know_ you know that.”

She tilts the knife against your neck. Five sucks in a breath, his heart pounding.

“You don’t know me, Diego.” Lila’s voice is hoarse.

Diego steps closer. He lifts a hand to cover hers over the knife.

“Don’t I?” he whispers. “I know that we can be your family. If you just let us.”

Lila’s eyes are glossy with unshed tears. Hesitantly, she turns her head to look around at his family, and in that moment, Five has a cautious inkling that Diego’s words actually got through to her. She doesn’t resist when Diego pulls her hand gently.

When she releases you, he almost feels weak with relief.

Five murmurs your name as you stagger over to him; you grab his arms, and he raises his hands to hold your face between them.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathes, “[Y/n] –”

“I’m okay,” he hears you say, but his ears are ringing and your skin is cold and _shit_ , your neck – delicately, Five tilts your head back, and you attempt to brush his hands away. “Five, it’s – it’s just a scratch …”

His fingers brush against a wetness on your skin. You wince, almost imperceptibly. He draws back to look at his hand, and when he sees the blood on his fingertips, _your_ blood, the wave of relief crashing onto him abruptly morphs back into rage.

Before you can pull him back, Five lunges at Lila.

Gunshots echo throughout the barn.

—

_You’re smiling._

—

He wakes up, gasping for breath.

“Oh, good! You’re still alive,” the Handler says, looming over him. Her lipstick is bright red through the dizzying blurs. “Lucky you. You got to see how this all played out.”

Grappling for air, Five tries to speak – tries to give one last word, to finally tell the damned snake to fuck off as he stares into the barrel of her automatic. But it hurts to breathe and he can’t. Fuck, it hurts. It _hurts_. His tongue feels like lead and his throat is closed up. All he can do is look.

But before she can pull the trigger, he hears gunfire.

Bullets rend flesh that isn’t his. Five’s eyes widen, stunned; the Handler gasps sharply. She turns. More gunfire.

She falls.

Shit, that could only mean.… Five struggles to lift his head, almost blacking out from the pain as the gunman approaches, crushing straw underfoot. A shadow falls over him.

The Swede silently tilts his gun down at his face, and he realizes: they are both the last ones. Everyone else is dead. The Swede’s brothers. The Handler. Lila. His siblings. You.

This is the end.

( _This doesn’t have to be the end._ )

… Five blinks, numb.

( _You’re the one who got us stuck here._ )

Unless …

( _Seconds. Not decades._ )

Seconds.

His lungs burn. Hope blooms in his chest.

( _C’mon, Five._ )

Concentrate. Hands clenching sluggishly, Five focuses on gaining back the feeling in them. Seconds, not decades. A familiar, electric buzz thrums through his bones, warm, crackling with energy. His hands begin to glow. Blue envelops them like they had so many times before.

It happens slowly, time reversing itself like molasses oozing back into a jar. The Swede lowers his arm and retreats. Bodies begin to rise. Five feels himself getting pushed up, and his feet touch the ground; he presses forward, running, refusing to look back. The sharp pains recede to a singular ache.

Seconds.

_Seconds._

He breaks through behind the barn door with a gasp. Air fills his chest, full and crisp.

Immediately, Five looks back at you and everyone else, standing and breathing, and pats himself just to make sure.

 _Holy_ shit.

Spotting movement outside, Five leaps at the Handler just as she walks in, seizing her weapon and turning it on her. His finger curls at the trigger. She raises her hands in surrender, lips pursed.

_Got you, you son of a bitch._

“It’s true, isn’t it? What Five said,” he hears Lila ask. He doesn’t dare look away from her mother, meeting her poisonous glare with an equally cold one. “Answer me! Is it true?”

The Handler takes in a breath. “Well –”

Before she can finish her sentence, blood sprays out from her chest. She collapses. Dead.

The Swede. Five stares at her body, gun lowering. There’s a pregnant pause, void of any air – and then in his periphery, Lila shoots forward.

Luther charges after her. “The case!”

“No!”

Diego tackles him to the ground. Lila disappears in a flash of blue.

One dead, one missing. Neither of which are you or his siblings. There might be hope for them yet. Rolling his shoulders, Five turns his attention to the rogue assassin, cocking his gun and pointing it at him. The Swede reciprocates.

Nobody utters a word, for fear that it may be their last. But as Five feels the weight of the automatic in his arms, he wonders, suddenly, just how much he has in common with this man. A forgotten humanity. The death of their families. The force of a person with nothing to lose.

Except in the Swede’s case, he has no chance of gaining back what he had lost.

 _This_ is the end.

Five takes his finger off the trigger, then after a brief hesitation, lets go of the gun.

“Enough,” he says.

Nothing happens at first. The only sign that the man heard him is how he looks away from Five, surveying the rest of the barn’s occupants.

Five returns his gaze firmly, muscles tense, when he meets it again. The Swede regards him for another moment, then finally speaks.

“Inte mer.”

He drops his weapon. No more killing.

—

After Vanya helps the kid and calms him down, she goes with him and Sissy to help them pack up. Everyone else exits the barn as well to rest up and say their goodbyes before leaving, save for Diego, who talks to Herb and Dot with you and Five before joining the rest of the group at the house.

As soon as everything seems like it’s on track, Five brings you straight to the bathroom before you can protest.

“Five, it’s just a scratch.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

In a familiar turn of events, you’re sitting on the edge of the bathtub, _sulking_ as he cleans the rest of the dried blood from your neck. Five scowls as he inspects the thin, rough scab underneath your jaw. For shit’s sake, it’s more than a ‘scratch’ – but at the very least, the cut wasn’t deep enough to cause too much bleeding.

Obviously, he’d have preferred it if you hadn’t gotten cut at all.

“She could’ve _killed_ you.”

“I know,” you murmur. He glares at you softly, and you reach over to hold his hand. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Five scoffs, shaking his head. “ _Worrying_ me? I was damn well past _worrying_ when she –” At that moment, he makes the mistake of seeing the guilt in your eyes, and he sighs. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You shrug quietly as he opens a large Band-Aid. “That I had to do something to keep you safe.”

“At your expense?”

Your miniscule smile changes into a grimace for a split second when he sticks the bandage on, but it returns immediately after. “You would’ve done the same thing, Five.”

All he can retort with is a displeased huff.

Silently, you stand up and turn him around, urging him to sit down this time as you pluck another hand towel from the stack that Vanya had given the two of you. Five sits still, mouth shut and eyes watching, as you start cleaning his face. Your expression is tender. A familiar feeling wells up inside of him.

Suddenly, you chuckle.

“What?”

“It’s just – if I didn’t know any better,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly grimy spot on his cheek, “I’d think that you were a schoolboy that just got into a fight and lost.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, good thing that you _do_ know better, because I obviously would’ve won.”

“Obviously.” Your eyes glint, like they have so many times before.

—

_“How bad does it hurt?”_

_Your hand is soft in his as he glances at his wrist, propped up on a stack of books, then into the small fire burning a few feet away. “Not that much,” he answers. “Thanks for splinting it.”_

_“Thanks for talking me through it.” You breathe in, head on his shoulder, testing the words on your tongue before you continue. “I was worried. I’m glad it’s feeling better.”_

_A wrist sprain is nothing to write home about, figuratively speaking. It’s more of an inconvenience than an actual concern; Five figures that the injury will heal in a week, a week and a half at the most. Frankly, he’s more concerned about how much longer it’ll take to complete daily tasks in the meantime._

_… You, on the other hand – well, he wonders if you’ve ever gotten anything more than a few cuts and scrapes growing up. The closest he had ever seen you get to panicking was after he fell today, and you’ve been wandering around with him for years._

_In a strange way, Five thinks, he was glad for it. He is glad for you. Glad for your presence, your level head. He is glad for the way you hold his hand and talk to him during the day and after dark. And he is glad, secretly, that you want to protect him just like he wants to protect you._

**“I love you.”**

_The words slip out, rough and unbidden._

_Five holds his breath when they echo in his ears. You stop tapping your fingers over his skin. Perhaps that’s a bad thing. It was not a mistake, of course, and he isn’t going to take it back, but if that wasn’t what you were saying this whole time – shit. He lets go of your hand, his throat scratchy and strangely closed up._

_But then – your fingertips brush his face. He swallows._

“I love you too.”


	5. crackers and jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 41\. Overhearing they have feelings for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

Some time back, not long after he got stranded in the post-apocalyptic world and perhaps a year and a half before running into you, Five’s only companion was Delores.

It had been a meeting of chance (as everything is) in the middle of a destroyed department store. She had been looking at him. And maybe that’s why he was so drawn in – that stare; it was a lifeless stare, yeah, but it was not by any means a _dead_ stare like the ones he had met too many times before. No life had been lost to create that stare. She was smiling, too.

Five had lifted her carefully out of the chunks of concrete, greeting her because there was no one else. For the first few weeks, he just placed her at the corner of her store and visited every once in a while, then took to occasionally toting her around the City when he needed to talk. He liked to pretend that she answered back – sometimes. After a few months, he named her Delores.

Then he met you.

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that _you_ knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to _you_ about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

_Well, here we are. Again._

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

_Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in,_ I _think that you’re scared of your own feelings._

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

_Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?_

“I’m _not_.”

_Ha! Rich._

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

_You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real._

“I’m not doing that.”

_Do it._

No.

_Say it._

No.

_For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –_

“ _Fine!_ ” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

_Very._

Ugh.

_Did it feel real?_

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask. 

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. _Warmth._ Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows _how_ you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, _fuck_.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You _know_. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

( _Did it feel real?_ )

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. _You_. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

You lean against his shoulder. He welcomes it.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want, check out my tumblr [@paperpocalypse](https://paperpocalypse.tumblr.com/)!


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